


these days

by pro_se



Series: softly, in vain [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: "prose that is too elaborate or ornate", Drinking, F/M, Purple Prose, because if there's something to describe how i write, it's purple prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: I had a loverI don’t think I’d risk another these daysThese days





	these days

His nicotine-stained hands are warm.

Charles Vane slumps on the hardwood floor and curls around a woven blanket. It’s difficult to discern the telltale flush of alcohol on his scowling face from the tongues of a roaring hearth; however, the empty bottles littering your apartment are rank with grog. You carefully nudge the bottles to a corner of the room. Vane’s mess, Vane’s responsibility.

He’s in no shape to attempt a coherent conversation. But you slide to the ground and instinctively tuck long, russet locks behind his ear. It’s a familiar action, crafted and molded by years of hesitant affection. Charles Vane unsteadily reaches up and holds you in place, pressed against his bearded cheek, and that’s how you know his hands are warm.

“What are you...” Charles Vane murmurs, slurring his words together. “What’s… what’s the matter? Why’re you staring like that?”

A smile flitters across your face. He looks so drowsy, so completely vulnerable.

You study his face.

You weren’t an artist, far from being or dreaming of being one, but imagined whittling his features on a block of timber. You’d seen other pirates, notably Thatch and Kenway, carving tokens and good luck charms limited to animalistic shapes. You wonder, How challenging would it be to emphasize the loftiness of Vane’s soft hair? Or define the strong, intense expression courtesy of his knitted brow and permanent scowl? You imagine, the carving knife slipping and procuring hooded eyes.

Ever since you’d idly compared sea glass to those irises, Vane had made a point to present such each time _Ranger_ docks at Nassau. Sometimes the shards were smaller than your fingernail. Other times, they nestled heavy and cool in the palm of your hand. You’d slipped them into empty jars and set them next to candles, throwing hints of emerald light along the flat.

The same tints of soft, gentle sea glass reflect in his heavy gaze-- and it’s heavy, in the sense of a weight being pressed against your chest, a weight that you draw closer because it offers warmth and reassurance and it’d be better to be crushed than holding empty air.

Vane runs a rough thumb over the back of your outstretched hand. He says something, perhaps your name, and shuts his eyes. “ _Ranger_ ’s leavin’ tomorrow for Havana,” the pirate mumbles. “Come with me.”

“I can’t, Charles.”

The pirate wets his dry lips. “Why not?”

You have a business, expectations from clients, and most importantly, a reputation to uphold. You wouldn’t risk them just to satisfy Charles Vane. At least, not tonight. Besides, the russet-haired man is drunk. Alcohol promise all sorts of dreams; and this was evidently wishful thinking. Reunited, or hopeful, lovers. One who lives and breathe the ocean, and one who never strays too far from inland.

You raise your other hand and lightly chuck under his chin, prompting him to open his eyes. “What would the others think?” you tease, opting for another rationale. “They would stake one of two claims: An old, vile pirate like you is in want of company. Or, I’d flirted my way on board and into your cabin.”

“You can’t flirt for shit,” Vane growls.

“Then, perhaps,” you suggest, “you are indeed old and vile.”

A muscle in Vane’s jaw twitches, and that’s the only warning before he suddenly pins you to the smooth floor, hands wrapped around your wrists. He straddles your waist, drunk and swaying to find his balance, but firm. The wool blanket slips from his shoulders and pools around your tangled legs.

“You’re forgetting something,” Vane rasps, and ducks his red face closer to yours.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s the weight of his gaze, his body, his hot hands against your cold ones; no medium could dare capture his overwhelming, absolutely addicting presence.

Vane bares his yellow teeth. “ _Pi-rate_ ,” he reminds, drawing out the word, and then he presses a scratchy kiss against the cords of your throat.


End file.
